i was swimming in darkness (till i met you)
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Set immediately after the last Inner Circle scene in ACOWAR. Everyone spends the night in the townhouse celebrating—everyone, that is, except Nesta. Nesta locks herself in her room all night, and neither she nor Cassian have spoken of their moment on the battlefield since. He's more than fine with the silence until a little prompting from Feyre makes him think twice...


**For Selina** **—** the other half of my soul.

My favorite part of me is always you.

* * *

They drank all night.

The decanters that held Rhys' finest alcohol had long since run empty and the burn in his throat from glass after glass of the drink had long since faded, leaving a dull, dry ache in his throat.

He is the only one awake. Feyre and Rhysand retiring early on that night (Rhys' distasteful joke of "dying, as it turns out, is _exhausting_ " received with protests and barely concealed indignation from Feyre. The asshole merely replied with a sheepish smirk and a "too soon?" to which he was ambushed with more jeering and Feyre hitting him on the back of his head so strongly, he winced—that sight, admittedly, made him howl with laughter). His friends are strewn about the living room, either too tired or too _drunk,_ to make it to their respective beds.

The girls dominate the couches, Mor on one side and Elain on the other. Mor looks beautiful as ever, a gleam to her person even in the low-dimmed yellow light of the room and her mouth hung open the way it does when she's rooted in intoxicated slumber. He chuckles softly, careful not to wake or jostle her too much as he tucks in any of her hanging limbs and drapes a blanket over her body. He presses a kiss over her brow that has her snuggling into the cushions and he smiles.

He surveys Azriel, who remains ever the gentleman despite his drunken state, having taken board on the floor (he always was the more gallant one between the two of them). He breathes a sigh of relief when he roams an eye over his wings and sees the line where the skin has mended itself together. It's a miracle, in and of itself, that none of the stitches pulled, considering the amount of power he expelled on the battlefield the previous day. He and Az have come too close to losing their wings in the past year that he can't help but murmur a small thanks to the Mother for her mercy and Madja's skillful, healing hands.

A frown works its way to his mouth. Though he's assured that Azriel will heal physically (he's certain Az would heal himself through _sheer will_ if that's what it took), he wonders about his emotional well-being. Good as Cassian is at fighting out his feelings, the worry for his friends, his _family,_ never really goes away. While Cassian has never had a problem speaking his mind, Azriel is all too comfortable at concealing his emotions, even amongst the Inner Circle, and Cassian never knows how to help him beyond giving him his space or cajoling him into letting off some steam through a spar—Cassian isn't known for his delicate touch, after all. He loses a breath. The spymaster spends too much time in his shadows, he surmises with more than a little melancholy.

At the thought of Azriel's penumbra companions, it occurs to him that the shadows frequently surrounding his friend seem somewhat. . . _dimmed_. A quick look at his face has him marvelling at the expression of pure content he finds there, at the way his face is awash in blissful repletion. He trails his gaze towards the source of his peace—his arm, extraneously outstretched over his head and fingers innocuously touching Elain's.

His frown disappears. Elain's own face is lit with a sleepy smile and her fingers are curled around the edges of Azriel's, a near fascimile of a lover's entanglement were it not for the miniscule distance left between their palms.

Perhaps neither Cassian nor Rhysand or even Mor and Feyre may be equipped to heal all of the shadowsinger, but it was comforting to know that there was _someone_ who would be more than equal to the task.

He smiles.

He dares not wrap Elain in as he did with Mor no matter the crick in the neck she might receive in the morning from such an awkward sleeping angle. He doesn't have the heart to interrupt their physical connection, so at the very least, he places the spare throw over Elain to ward off the cold in lieu of Azriel who has his wings to keep him plenty warm.

His tasks done, he extends both arms over his head to work out the kinks in his body and winces when the muscles in his wings twinge in protest. He spares the three prone figures one last fond glance before waving a hand at the lights in the room till they have diminished. He's relieved to see a glimmer to his Siphons despite, for the most part, its ashen sheen as his magic crawls to replenish itself.

Perhaps it was foolish to be walking through the townhouse in near darkness but he knows this place like the back of his hand, could navigate it with his eyes closed which is essentially what he's doing as he makes his way to the second floor.

Remnants of Rhysand's fine liquor burn hot through his blood but for the most part, he is sober. Unlike his two other lightweight—well, compared to _him_ at least—companions (Elain opting not to drink at all), he'd built a tolerance for the hard stuff in the last few centuries of his life. It's most likely the reason he feels every shooting pain up the length of his mangled, albeit bandaged, leg as he slowly climbs up the stairwell.

It's been, what appears like, a lifetime since he's experienced injuries as severe as these ones. Though he is considered young by fae standards, he's never felt every year of his age as he does now, panting as he leans against the banister to wipe at the sweat that's gathered on his forehead and catches his breath. He starts to wonder if the trip is even worth it when he considers the three doors to his right. While the floor of the town house living room would have made for decent sleeping accommodations, why waste a perfectly functioning bed? And there happens to be two empty mattresses at his disposal and one with his name on it.

He knows the third door leads to the guest chambers since the middle room belongs to Elain and he means to go there, _truly,_ except. . . the door to his immediate right captures his attention.

Rather, the _occupant_ of those bed chambers, manages to stop him in his tracks.

She hadn't stepped out of her room since they all arrived—not for dinner or drinks, and not even at Elain's quiet urging to join them. Feyre had tried insisting she not starve herself and eat _something_ , but her petulant stomp down the stairs is only a testament to her sister's will. She remained resolute. Rhysand, Azriel and surprisingly even _Mor_ had shot him barely inconspicuous looks throughout the night that intended to goad him into approaching the eldest Archeron but he dare not make a move. If she was going to freeze them out, then so would he. Two could play at that game and she wasn't the only stubborn one here.

Yet now, with his thoughts the loudest din in the darkness, it all seems so silly. Short of declaring his love for her, something _clicked_ for them, like a spark in the dimness or a flame in the gloom. They were laid bare that day, a hope bursting from the chasm in their chests to pour light onto the ground, forming a tether between them—that they might find each other, always, in this life and the next life and again and again and _again._

They had pledged themselves to each other on that battlefield.

There is none of that here.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting, if he was being honest. She did not visit him on his rest bed and he didn't begrudge her for it, knowing that the battle was overwhelming and they could all do with some space. Then the Meeting occurred and while he was still out of commission, she was the human-fae emissary. Her presence was vital.

But as they all prepared to go home, she hadn't spared him a glance nor a word and he. . . for all the battles he'd fought and the foes he'd slain, he couldn't muster up the courage to face her. Cassian didn't fare well when he was defenseless, regardless if it was physically or emotionally. It's why all his life he'd trained so much harder, someone like him—a bastard born as one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors ever to train, commander to the Night Court armies and one of the High Lord's Inner Circle—could _never_ be caught off guard, and if he couldn't fight it then he sure as hell would be flying from it so that he could _find_ a way to fight it.

When it came to _her_ however. . . the very thought of her has him coming undone and he forgets everything he's ever learned about compartmentalizing his emotions. His tongue loosens and it's like his mind is unhinged. Something about the way she looks at him, her gaze piercing in its coldness, it's as if she sees all the way inside him—the angry, the violent, the pain, the _ugly_ —and he unravels right before her very eyes.

And he _hates_ it.

So he leaves.

Or at least he's about to, when the door at the end of the hall opens to reveal Feyre, wrapped in a robe and appearing as if she hasn't slept a wink despite her early retirement. There are dark circles under her eyes and she must be spent, but she smiles at him, like seeing him outside her sister's door in the middle of the night isn't a bizarre happenstance. In his addled state, he smiles back and then they're both stood there, staring as a vertical plank of wood is all that separates them from _her._

Feyre breaks her gaze to give him a long, appraising look.

"How are you, Cassian?"

He's surprised she doesn't outright ask him what he's doing but if that's how she wants to play it, he won't deny her. He shrugs and with a charming smile, replies, "I've still got my good looks so I can't really complain."

Feyre rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "I suppose you can't be too hurt if you're cracking jokes, even at this hour."

"Speaking of," he raises an eyebrow. "What are _you_ doing up? Given everything that's happened, I thought neither you nor Rhys would be coming out for at least a couple days."

"Ha- _ha,_ " she sticks her tongue out and he covers his mouth to stifle a laugh. Feyre crosses her arms. "I could say the same for you."

Cassian flexes his arms despite the pain that shoots down the length of his body at the action. He hides his wince behind a grin. "Ah, you know me. Nothing can keep me down too long."

It doesn't fool Feyre as she schools her face into a disapproving frown. "I _do_ know you, no matter how short of a time we've spent together, which is why I don't understand this mask you've decided to put back on again." Disapproval melts into concern. "You don't have to hide from me."

Alarm surges through his veins. There's that _look,_ and the resemblance between the youngest and eldest Archeron is never more evident than it is now, that same blue-gray gaze burning a hole into his skin, thankfully not as searing as her sister's, but calculating enough to raise his hackles all the same.

With a little panic, he considers that he might be gravely injured after all, since it takes him longer than usual to compose himself and respond when Feyre addresses him again.

"She does the same thing you know," she returns her gaze to the door, leaving little room to wonder about who she might be pertaining to. "Although, her style is more cutting remarks and ice-cold glares than humor and fight training."

There's no use denying it when it's the truth, and he doesn't know if he's allowed to laugh given how protective Feyre gets when it comes to her sisters (her reaction to the aftermath of Rhys flying with Nesta comes to mind) so he says nothing.

Feyre doesn't seem to be looking for an answer anyway. "But you two have a lot in common."

He snorts and with a somberness that frightens even him, he whispers. "I would _never_ do to you what she did." He shakes his head, the lowness of his tone not detracting from the vehemence of which he speaks. "I would never let any sibling of mine, let alone the _youngest_ one, go off into the woods on a daily basis, knowing the dangers that lurked there, so that they could provide for our family. For _years._ "

He wants to kick himself. If only there was a way to shove one's foot in their mouth! Why is he saying any of this? Didn't he all ready establish Feyre's protective nature towards her sisters? Besides, they've been over this— _he_ has said as much to Nesta's face and lived to tell the tale. Yet a part of him, no matter how small, niggles at his doubt of her and thrives in the push and pull of _them_ , as if any moment they might break and use the shards to destroy each other and he might prefer it, if only because he's so used to the Fight.

(He's hesitant to admit to the bigger part of him that might just _live_ at the certainty of him and her, at how they might break each other just to use those broken halves to form a whole, the jagged edges of him fitting into the razor sharp contours of her)

(They're all just pieces in the end, aren't they? And he's _afraid of the puzzle of them_ )

He turns to her, his eyes both imploring and wavering. _"How?"_ he sighs, his breath coming out in ragged stutters. "How can you forgive her?" Then just as quickly, he shuts his eyes, afraid of the answers.

(Afraid of the truth)

"Because I love her," she breathes, and he nearly trembles at the words. "And I know she loves me."

He shakes his head, the thought incomprehensible to him. Not the notion that Nesta loved her sisters, that was never in question, but that she might deign to love (him) anyone else.

The question must be written on his face because Feyre lays a gentle hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

"I don't know if you know this but, she went looking for me when Tamlin took me to the Spring Court. Not even his magic could enslave her mind." She shakes her head, as if she were still amazed at Nesta's strength. Perhaps he was too.

(Except it was always, _always_ there. That's how he knew, whether consciously or not, she could put up with his shit and give just as good as she got)

"So maybe she's not the greatest at showing she cares, Cauldron knows it took _me_ ages to come to terms with my feelings for Rhys, never mind actually admitting it to him." He chuckles and she smiles and for once in this conversation he looks at ease. But when the laughter dies down, a silence blankets them, deafening in its emptiness yet weighing on their shoulders like an anchor.

"Nesta is. . . difficult, I understand that. But she _didn't_ go.I turned my sisters into the thing they hated most—"

"That was _not_ your fault!"

"Be that as it may," her face twists in bitter anguish and her nostrils flare, no doubt in memory of the events in Hybern and the revelation of the Spring Court's betrayal. "Their association with me cost them their mortality. They could have left, that much I know now that Nesta told me that she ventured on her own to find me. I subjected them to an uncertain existence, so it wasn't far-fetched to think that either of them might have. . ." she gulps audibly, as if it physically pains her to say the next words and he understands why, "they could have ended their lives."

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to respond, to deny her, to assure her, to rage, to _roar_ but his thoughts are a riot in his head and all the talk in him gets tangled up in his throat and he's choking because blue-gray eyes empty of that fire and lovely, curved cheeks faded ashen and losing her, a world _without_ her and—

"But they're here Cassian," she gives his shoulder squeeze, as if to shake him from his discernment and he's all too grateful for the jolt in reality, for the reassurance of, "she's _here_. And maybe," she gives him a watery smile. "Maybe that's enough—that she _stayed_ by my side, despite my sins and despite her misgivings."

A distant look bleeds through her eyes and it occurs to him that she may not just be talking about her sisters, but of the Father who had seemed to abandon them, only to return when they needed him most. For a moment, his entire countenance softens for her and her family, as he considers everything she's lost. Not for the first time, he has to remind himself that the woman before him is younger than he is. He marvels at the strength she's shown, at all that she's done for this world of his that she never asked to be a part of.

"They say time heals all wounds, except even time has an end—the setting of the sun or the closing of the hour but. . . not love. Rhysand's love saved me from Amarantha just as my love for him allowed us to defy death. Beyond the boundaries of time, I think most things can be healed, most things can be _forgiven,_ if someone loves you enough.

"And she hasn't said as much but I know she loves me, because I feel it." Her eyes shine. "I _feel_ it."

He shakes his head, his heart thundering in his chest at the way his emotions seem to encompass his very body. "What are you trying to say?"

"I think you all ready know," she murmurs. "I love her, and you. . ."

He sucks in a sharp breath and Feyre seems to catch herself. She looks down at her clasped hands sheepishly.

"Well, that's between you and her now isn't it?"

"Feyre. . ." he starts, "why are you telling me this? What do you _want_ from me?"

At the frustration in his tone, she focuses that searing gaze on him. This time, instead of hiding from it, he stares right back, hoping he might find an answer to his feelings there.

"I told Elain that we would help Nesta, when the time came and she was ready to accept it. But, truth be told, _I don't know when that is._ Or if it'll come at all." She sighs, a world of heartbreak in that release. "As her sisters, there are things that we. . . that _I_ cannot give her." Her brows crease with anguish, the thought of having provided for her family for so long yet unequipped to give them what they _truly_ need, weighing heavy on her soul. "But maybe _you_ can."

His face contorts in confusion, at the way it comes out like a question. As High Lady, she has free reign to command him to do anything and he would gladly follow despite any reservations he might have because he knows that before High Lady, she is first and foremost his friend. She would never lead him astray.

At his own reminder, he feels the chaos of his emotions simmer down into quiet repose—all the feelings of restlessness and being adrift abate till everything in him clicks into place.

"You asked me what I wanted from you. After everything I've done, there is nothing I want more for you, for Nesta, for _all_ my loved ones, than your happiness." She glances between him and Nesta's room. "And I think you might find that with each other." She brings her clasped hands beneath her chin, imploring. "So, please, allow me to give you a piece of that happiness. Life, even the eternal kind, is too short to waste another moment, another _breath_." She shudders. "I should think I know that better than anyone by now."

She grasps his hand. "If there's anything Rhysand has taught me it's that at some point, you only need the courage to take your life from Fate's hands and _choose_ where you want it to lead. . . _whom_ it might lead to." she gives it a squeeze. "And you're the bravest person I know."

He returns it. "Thank you." The two words loaded with more meaning than they could convey and that which he could ever express.

She beams at him as if to say, "message received", eyes crinkling in the corner into little smiles of their own, before making towards her chambers. It washes over him, a radiance in the darkness, giving him the confidence and peace he had so been yearning for when he first stood before this door.

Before she leaves, she waves a hand over Nesta's room, articulating through her _daemati_ powers that she lifted the silencing charm she placed earlier so as not to disturb her sister, from the room.

Her door clicks shut.

He takes a deep breath.

Alone, the doubt starts trickling in, taking a stifling hold of his limbs and locking him in place. What the hell is he _doing?_ What is wrong with him? What if _Feyre's_ wrong about him? About them? And, the most loaded question of all—with awful manners, no tact, a morbid sense of humor, enemies in all courts, a dangerous skillset, issues larger than Prythian itself and 500 years of blood on his hands, does he even _deserve_ a formidable woman such as Nesta? _Why_ would she even want anything to do with him?

The questions swirl in his brain and he rubs at his temple to quell the budding headache forming there. Cauldron, was she even _awake?_

Well, that question is easy enough to answer—fae hearing aside. If he is being honest with himself, which he is (honestly) struggling with right now, then the truth of the matter is: all his answers are laying in wait just beyond the wooden door before him.

"I only need the courage," he mutters to himself. "I'm in charge of _my_ fate." He paces—two, deliberately slow, rounds of it—down the length of the hall, his mind still nothing but a jumble of questions, before stopping in front of her room once more. He wishes he could jump in place, if only to have some way to expel his nerves, so he opts for shaking his arms and hands.

"I only need the courage," he huffs. "I only need the courage." He clenches his fist and, because he's not Azriel, prepares to barge in—spewing from his lips, a steady murmur of, "I only need the _cour_ —"

He nearly falls to the floor when the door opens and he's met with none other than her signature frigid glare.

"You seem to have a fondness for lurking outside my quarters."

He's thankful for the gloom that surrounds them, masking the blood rapidly rushing to his face. He grins to cover his discomfort, his pearly whites gleaming in the dark to counter the flashing of her eyes. He leans closer to her, his hands braced against the door and his weight on his good leg so as not to jar the other. His mouth hovers over hers.

"It's a habit I've been meaning to break."

For the most part she is unmoved, save for the way she gulps. He delights in the movement—nearly indiscernible were he not looking for any effect he might have on her. It's a far cry from their earlier encounters, when she was nothing more than a pillar of ice and steel. His eyes trace the line of her throat and the memory of his lips against her soft, pale skin floods his senses and he longs to _taste_.

The last time he was this close to her had ended with him on his back, and not in the most pleasurable way one _can_ be on their back.

That's another thing that's changed—it was all about his most carnal desires then, and his ego. She was a first for him, the first to resist and the first to challenge him, in a long time.

She was unsettling, and so _unaffected_ by him. . . it was unnerving! Still, he wanted to prove that it meant nothing, that _she_ meant nothing, to him (though the question as to whom he was proving, himself or her, remains unanswered). Yet that day in the Archeron abode only revealed one certainty and one quandary—the certainty being that Nesta Archeron was _worthy_ , and most importantly, she knew it.

The only question that remained, that forever circled his head—

Was he?

"Well, break it quickly," she replies.

Standing before her and that scrutinizing gaze, he feels unsure as ever. "Your insufferable muttering gave me a headache." As if to emphasize her point, she brings a hand to rub at her temples.

He straightens. "I don't mutter," he says (mutters), folding his arms across his chest.

Nesta raises a delicately arched eyebrow at him that somehow manages to effectively communicate her disbelief. "Of course you don't," she remarks airily and with a dismissive wave of her hand, continues, "just as you don't flap around the roof of people's houses ten minutes after you're supposed to meet them."

She turns her back on him, insolent as ever, and he's close to letting out a growl that his wings flutter from the act of withholding the sound. But that would only confirm her suspicions of that day (of which, no matter what happens after tonight, he will _never_ admit to) so he enters her room, surmising that the open door is as good an invitation as any, and shuts it quietly behind him.

When he turns to face her, he finds her stood by her bedroom window. Like most of the rooms in the townhouse, one wall is made entirely of glass, providing the occupant with an undoubtedly spectacular view. Hers overlooks the city of Velaris, beautiful and alive despite the late hour, the lights of the establishments rivalling that of the diamond-studded sky with the moon being the biggest of them all. Yet in the din of the night—

Nesta is the _brightest_.

In his extensive research of the creatures dwelling in the Prison, he came across the histories of the Seraphims and the Peregryns. It is said that they were descended from celestial beings known as 'angels' that were guided by one of the old gods and sworn to protect those in the world who could not protect themselves. They were human in appearance, save for their wings—massive, white and feathered wings that allowed them to travel between _universes_. Like the gold skin of the Seraphims, the angels had a glow about them, halos so bright they were nearly blinding to mortals. They were said to be kind, loving and vigilant—until one angel began lusting for more power like that of the old god he submitted to and so he sought to overthrow him. War struck, one of the very first, in which everyone lost. Little by little, the angels fell to earth, retaining little of their powers, one of them being their wings.

 _She_ reminds him of that story. He may be the one with wings but with the moonlight spilling over every expanse of her exposed skin like how he imagines those halos, Nesta is a fallen angel—fiercely protective yet greedy in her quest to keep everyone, save for Elain, at arm's length—and he is lost in her radiance, at how she outshines even the moon.

"Did you come in here to ogle at me, or did you actually have something of import to say?"

But then she opens her mouth.

He clenches his fists and through gritted teeth he hisses, "You've been avoiding me. We need to talk."

"About what?"

" _You know what._ "

"I'm certain I don't know what you mean." She crosses her arms. "Besides, I'm not in the mood—considering the hour."

He rolls his eyes. "Because you were sleeping so soundly, right?"

"As a matter of fact, I _was_ till your lumbering steps woke me." A lie, he now knows thanks to Feyre's silencing spell (which he _hopes_ she's reinstated, given how loudly they're yelling—err, _talking_ ). "I thought you were injured?"

"Oh, so you _have_ noticed me in your botched attempt to completely ignore my existence!"

"It's hard to ignore someone who makes it their life's mission to bumble through life like an _idiot_ —"

" _Nesta._ "

Her name pours from his lips in a whisper, though it might as well have been a shout for all the meaning he's loaded onto it. Except, he doesn't know if he's calling for her attention, if it's a plea, a prayer, a warning, an apology or everything in between. Everything unspoken between them hangs heavy in the air and it's enough to silence her, to stutter his breath. He takes a measured step towards her.

"Nesta," he breathes.

No response. He makes another calculated step.

"Face me."

She shakes her head, and he inches closer.

"Face me?" he asks and the break in his voice is most certainly a plea.

"No," another shake of her head, "you cannot make me."

"I can't." If she's surprised by the acquiescence, she does not show it. "So I ask it of you. _Please._ "

There is naught but a few lines of space between them now that he can see in her reflection how her eyes are shut—

How her shoulders tremble in the most miniscule of movements.

How her arms are crossed, not in indignation, but in a bid to hold herself closer.

"Why won't you look at me?"

The question is a caress of breath at her ear as he stands flushed against her back, nothing but a hairsbreadth of space between them, his chest brushing the fabric of her dress with every slow breath. Her scent, all ready strong to begin with, floods his senses that he nearly drowns in the smell of her—sweet and fierce and afraid.

He wonders if she senses his fear as well.

(Not afraid of sinking, but afraid of swimming, afraid of being _saved_ )

A blow of hot air along her shoulder as he exhales causes her to turn her head from facing the window to the side, as if she might move away from him.

She doesn't.

"Because I won't give in to you," her tone a harsh tremor. "I _can't._ "

" _Why?_ "

"I don't owe you any answers. I don't owe you _anything._ Why would I," a muscle feathers in her jaw. "You're nothing to me."

He's so taken aback by the declaration that _his_ jaw drops. This time, anger surges through his veins, anger and something else, something more deadly and potent—

 _Pain._

How it burns and chokes him. His wings flare behind him, injuries momentarily forgotten as the muscles ripple and rage rips through the sinew. He spreads them, wide as the room allows him, before folding them over their bodies and encasing them in darkness, save for what little light trickles through overhead.

Such an insidious thing—pain. It tears through the body and leaves everything in you blind because the agony is all you can see.

(At least that's how he'll justify his actions, later)

And seeing her, a pillar of immovable steel, so cold and unfeeling in the face of his wrath—he is anguish exemplified, its grip so firm till it coats his very breath and fills the air around them. He ventures a step, finally closing what little distance remains between them, his legs folding into the fabric of her skirts as he lines his feet along the outsides of hers and his hips pin sinfully into her own. He places his hands atop the glass window as his arms come up to encircle her. He brushes his lips along the shell of her ear.

"Face me, Nesta Archeron, and I'll show you just how _meaningful_ I can truly be."

They are oh so close, one might mistake them to be lovers if the windows allowed outsiders a glimpse into the townhouse. Yet there is nothing intimate in Nesta's gaze when her head snaps from the side and their eyes meet through the glass. As they lock gazes, he feels his heartbeat speed up and it's suddenly a different sort of heat that rushes through his veins, dizzying in its exhilaration. He noses at the tendrils draped along the back of her neck where it's fallen from her bun, feeling his scent change as he breathes in hers. He presses closer, lips dangerously close to her pulse as he nestles the line of his stirring cock into the crook of her ass cheeks.

"Or are you that scared of me?"

At the taunt, she finally turns to face him. If he is pain personified then she is ice incarnate. . . yet even in their reflection he can feel the ire in her hard stare at his brazen actions. Now, with nothing between them, the fire in her eyes burns hotter and brighter than ever, to match the inferno in his own. She snarls, teeth bared like some wild, untamed animal and he revels in the crack of her otherwise perfectly iced façade.

"Men, mortal or otherwise, you are all the _same._ All you want is one thing, someone to—to wet your appetites and warm your beds."

"What an impassioned speech, for someone who supposedly feels 'nothing'." He tuts. "Such hypocrisy, dear Nesta."

"For you," she reiterates, nostrils flaring in barely concealed acerbity. "I feel nothing for _you_."

"Then you won't mind me returning the favor and saying that you're right." He takes a deep breath, hardening when her natural scent floods his senses to the point of intoxication. He grins though his eyes reveal the very opposite of humor as he readies to strike his fatal blow. "You're nothing to me, nothing but a hole to fill."

He shifts and there's no mistaking the feeling between his thighs. Her eyes widen when he rocks gently into her hips but narrows when his actions only serve to confirm her beliefs.

She snarls. "How _dare_ —"

Her hand is quick as lightning as it flashes up and towards his cheek. But they've played this game before and like last time, he is quicker, catching her palm with his. She growls, her eyes flashing in what he assumes is recollection as he lays it against his chest in perfect imitation of the last time they were this close. It's why he's able to catch her knee before it reaches its intended target, and through the skirts of her dress, he slides his palm beneath her knee so he can hitch it against his hip till he's nestled into the cradle of her thighs.

He clicks his tongue. "Not this time."

In fairness to Nesta, she doesn't move, not even to fight back. She could have been stone for all he knew, were it not for the brush of her breasts against his chest with every heaving breath she takes or the apparent wrath in her gaze—a wrath that, tethered to the Cauldron or not, promised worlds of torture and pain. His grin, if it could be called such a thing, widens till it's nothing but a feral flashing of teeth.

His wings unfold, finally releasing them from the darkness he'd trapped them in and allowing moonbeams to float between them. Beneath the light he can clearly see the blush in her cheeks, can taste the sweetness of her breath in his tongue as he moves her hand from his chest to splay it against the window. His free hand moves to cup her ass so that he might pin her hips underneath his once more, his intent clear.

The clouds clear and the full moon's radiance hits them in extremes. It's how he's able to tell—that he's crossed a line, he's gone too far. While she was quite tense to begin with, a different tension takes hold of her as he feels every inch of her where they are touching go deadly frigid. Gone is the fiery zest in her eyes, replaced by the glaze of a panic in her memory, one she only spoke of once before and her scent, not the figurative fear of earlier but _true_ fear—blinding trepidation and paralyzing despair.

The full force of his actions hits him and he fumbles back, using his wings to propel him when he feels he isn't fast enough, only to end up on his backside when he lands on his injured leg and the physical pain of his fractures returns.

His cry of pain seems to jolt her from her daze, frozen as she was with her legs spread apart and her hand still against the window. She snatches it from where it was resting against the glass and straightens her skirts before dropping her hands, her arms limp at her sides. Then she stares at him. It's a hard stare, yes, but a blank one and yet—

It's the most frightening look she's ever given him.

"I'm sorry," he says, the words so small and insignificant and _stupid_ in the face of what he'd just done.

Of what memory it incited in her.

"I'm sorry," he says again when she doesn't respond, back to being that pillar of steel except without the sharpness—just the stillness.

"I didn't mean it," he tries again, reduced to that pleading mess of earlier, every word and look tinged in desperation now—shouting at her to react and begging for a salvation he didn't, _wouldn't,_ ever deserve. "I was angry and I _didn't_ mean a word of—"

"Of course you did."

The funny thing about pain, though, is when you let it take a hold of you, you end up hurting more than just yourself—

"You were angry. You wanted me to suffer and that, more than anything, is why you meant it at all."

—you hurt the ones around you.

The words are clipped and hollow, telling him that she is still lost in the sea of her memories. And in the sea of _his_ emotions, his shame is the biggest barge, weighing so heavy in his chest he could drown.

"Why have you come here, Cassian?"

There is shame and at the question, suddenly, there is something else too.

 _Hope._

It's a flicker, so fleeting, a whisper of a breath could blow it out and yet, there it remains—and it is from there that he draws his courage, to turn from his instinct to flee an unfamiliar situation and face a fight he's been avoiding for decades.

The fight for his heart.

Because it's not about whether he deserves her love or whether she deserves his. He's a killer, she was willing to let her family starve—what did any of them truly deserve? He's saved the lives of his friends, his _family,_ countless times and Nesta stayed, has remained _present_ , despite every opportunity provided for her to leave, and her sisters felt loved because of it. So maybe it's less about what any of them deserve.

Maybe. . . it's more to do with finding the people who will see through your darkness, about them loving you enough to be willing to pull you out of the gloom.

Even if it means swimming in it to get to you.

He rises.

(And tries not to rejoice at her attention when he leans on his bad leg for a moment and winces)

(Suffice to say, he does _not_ succeed)

"You and I. . . we are not mates."

She snorts—the sound so unlady-like, so _un_ Nesta, that they are both taken aback. He almost laughs, the twitching of his mouth the only betrayal of his untimely amusement. A bit of heat returns to her eyes as she dares him to laugh. He purses his lips to contain himself, though for the most part, his humor has faded, replaced by a profound relief at seeing her slowly return to herself.

She clears her throat. "That's a gross understatement." She raises a brow, in that infuriating manner of hers, gesturing for him to get on with his point. He rolls his eyes.

" _But,_ " he emphasizes, a solemnity returning to his voice, "there is something here, between you and me. A _connection_. And I don't even understand it because half the time," he throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, "I can't even _stand_ you! You hardly ever laugh _or_ smile because you have absolutely no sense of humor—"

She frowns, as if to confirm it.

"—you're spoiled, entitled, _apathetic_ —"

At that, she snarls. "You _reprobate_ —"

"And that!" He points at her. "You're _cruel._ You never have a nice thing to say about anybody, not even your own flesh and blood!"

At that she looks away, and he thinks it's guilt that he sees coloring her cheeks. He softens his tone.

"But who am I to talk, right?" He sighs, tugging at the knot atop his head to hide his apprehension. He hangs his head. "I say a lot yet it's nothing meaningful. I use humor as a buffer for what I really feel. I'm careless with other people's feelings. You know that I'm a _killer,_ " he brings his palms up, as if he can still see the blood of the countless individuals he'd slain.

The wrongs he'd committed to his own family.

He's always felt haunted by what he'd done with Mor the day she asked him to sleep with her, knowing how Azriel felt for her but agreeing anyway out of an inflated sense of self-worth. A self-worth that all but disappeared after he realized what he'd just done and replaced with that crippling guilt, till his life felt meaningless and colorless.

But Nesta. . . from the moment they met, she'd awaken in him a zest for his own life that he found was lacking since that day and all the days that followed.

His world was empty—filtered through a bleak lens of black and white till she came in. She was all the colors, the earth in her hair, the sky in her eyes and the bloom of blood-red flowers in her cheeks.

Amren and Feyre had theorized that Nesta inherited the power of Death when she took from the Cauldron that day.

Yet in saving him on the battlefield, she'd _given_ him life—had _chosen_ to risk her own to do so.

He approaches her in a calm gait now, rather than a predatory one. This time, he remains a respectful distance, leaving the choice of eliminating that space for her to make.

"You could have let me die that day, but you _stayed_ —till the very end." Feyre's words echo in his head, _maybe that's enough_.

"We're not mates,"

There's a reprieve from the tension when she rolls her eyes and replies caustically as if offended, though he's hopeful to note that it's half-hearted, "So you keep saying."

"My regret was that we didn't have time," he continues, throwing her a quick reproachful look, "and yet, here we are." He finally deigns to acknowledge, what could have been, his last words. At the way she tenses, he can tell she's thinking of it too, and he has never felt more tethered to her than he does now, when her perpetually glacial expression melts away as they look at each other and they're _both_ still petrified—that this could be a cruel trick inflicted onto them by Hybern, only for him to snatch it away and have them wake up, returned to that blood-splattered land. He gulps nervously, before giving a tiny shake of his head.

 _This_ is real.

"You know, Fate may have played a factor in us meeting at this point in our lives, but either of us could have _chosen_ to walk away, too. I could have chosen not to swear my protection to you and you could have chosen not to call me to you, and perhaps. . . thatis the point of us. _That_ is what makes it, _us_ , all the more powerful because—" he takes a deep breath.

"I choose you, Nesta." The words are spoken so softly, despite the way his heart yammers and roars for her. " _I choose you._ "

He can hear her heartbeat, how it quickens and stutters—in perfect sync with his, as they reach a precipice he's aware they can never return from after tonight.

She lays a hand on his chest, next to his Siphon. His breath hitches and he's _aching_ to touch her except she maintains her distance but for that one simple touch, and he burns with it. She runs her fingers along his leather and he feels it down to his soul.

"It's not that I don't feel," she murmurs, for once not looking him in the eye. "I feel anger. I feel sadness, misery, happiness, _pain_." The hand on her side clenches to a fist, "and that's the problem—I feel it _all._ "

"I know that now," he nods. "But I'm not asking for everything." He dips his chin till he catches her gaze and the weight he sees there is astounding enough to shatter anyone.

But not her. _Never_ her.

Still, no one should have to bear their burdens alone.

"Just whatever you're willing to give, Nesta, and I will carry it with you. I'd carry it all if you asked it of me."

"This is too much," she says in an evasive manner.

"Tell me to leave, and I will."

Her brows furrow and she gives one, slight shake of her head. He breathes a sigh of relief. She gently trails her fingers from the planes of his chest to the hollow of his throat.

She looks up at him—her expression the most vulnerable it's ever been and this time, he returns in kind. He feels utterly exposed but for once, calm about it, knowing that she is as trepid as he is.

"If we do this," she starts, her voice watery though she tries to hide it, "you have to know that I am not some broken thing waiting for you to fix me."

He hides his smile, lest he reignite her ire. But he can't quite mask his admiration when he says, "I don't think anything could break you, Nesta."

"You could," she whispers honestly, eyes going downcast. "You are so much older than me. What happens once you've grown bored with this, with us? You can't expect me to sit around waiting for you like some mindless little chit."

"Who says _you_ won't grow bored with me?" He grasps her chin till she is focused on him. "You don't have a monopoly on shitty behavior. I know _I'm_ a lot to handle." He covers her hand on his chest with his. "I'm a troublesome asshole that doesn't know when to shut up half the time. And the other time? I'm just kind of. . . _lost._ " He shrugs to cover his discomfort though he has a feeling he doesn't fool her. That aside, he continues earnestly, "Now _you_ have to know that I don't want to change you. I'm willing to change _with_ you, for the better, if that's alright with you?"

She clutches the hand holding her chin in a vice grip, as if in apology, though he's confused as to what for till she speaks. "If you're looking for someone to save you, then I can't help you."

"Don't you see?" He lets go of her chin to entwine their fingers and squeezes back. "There are days when I think that I'm beyond saving, but _you_ did." He shakes his head in disbelief, in _awe. "_ You saved my life." He thinks of the way she's managed to awaken his zest for life, in the way she evokes him, makes him fight, makes him _feel_ again. "You've saved me in all the ways that matter."

A pregnant silence fills the air, after which Nesta lets him go and he thinks, this is the moment he breaks—his mind spirals as he genuinely believes she will tell him to leave because it's too much, nothing is alright, she wants nothing to do with him, he's wrong about everything and that they're over before they even started.

But he realizes that the time for words is coming to an end when he finds the answers to his questions in her actions. She steps back and reaches for the remaining pins holding her hair up. She drops them, one by one, till her locks are a tangled mess down the length of her back. She moves to her sleeves and, weak as he is, he doesn't tell her to stop. Just watches helplessly as, true to Night Court fashion, all it takes is a tug before her dress is nothing but a pool of fabric on the floor. Left in nothing but her underthings, the tremble of her limbs becomes all the more prominent.

"I'm so scared," she whispers.

He holds a hand up supinely, so that she might see the way he quakes. "So am I," he murmurs reassuringly. "But I'm tired of being afraid. I think. . . maybe we could find a way to be brave. _Together_."

His voice nearly breaks at the vehemence with which he speaks. But there's a veil of calmness that blankets her eyes—so bright in the dark—that conveys a quiet understanding, as if she _actually_ believes him.

Believes _in_ him.

She slides her palm over his upturned one and with a gentleness he can only muster up in her presence, he brings it back to his chest, over his heart—the space he is _certain,_ now belongs to her.

From his chest, he glides her hand to the clasps holding his armor together—the armor that he rarely ever takes off because it serves as his protection, in all the personal ways an armor is.

With a guiding hand, he allows her to chip at that armor until his upper half is bare, Siphons gleaming in the moonlight, Illyrian leathers strewn about the ground and scars from battles past standing stark white under the blanch light. He's close to tears when, without prompting, she drops to her knees to relieve him of the armor covering his lower half. Utterly bare, he steels himself as he submits to her ever impertinent scrutiny and despite all the declarations of that night, he still expects her rejection.

(Perhaps 500 years of flight instincts should be the bad habit he endeavors to break)

He takes a deep breath to cleanse his mind of the doubts.

"I choose you," he affirms.

And Nesta, for all her silence, seems to heed the words he can't seem to say. There's a delicateness to her touch as she traces the angry abrasions on his flesh, an apology in her orbs when she takes in the damage to his leg.

In a move that surprises him, she takes both his hands and places it on her hips. For someone renowned for her coldness, her skin radiates warmth even through the quite thin garment. He sucks in a breath when she moves his hands lower, to the hem of her slip.

"Are you sure?"

"I trust you."

He smiles, the first genuine upturn of his lips in her presence. There's a shift inside him, as he finally comprehends what Feyre means when she says she _feels_ whatever it is that's unspoken.

With Nesta, he is learning how to speak without words. Her actions convey her messages more meaningfully than feckless words ever could, that the words she _does_ use are laden with deliberate sententiousity—that there are a million and one ways to say "I love you" _without_ actually having to say those precise words.

(They've avowed it ostensibly in the short time they've known each other, it's remarkable— _protect, I can't, I will find you again, I trust you, I choose you. I choose you, I choose you, I choose_ you)

"No going back now," he says lightly, though he knows that if she changes her mind, she need only say the words.

But she breaks into a smile, radiating a light he'd akin to the brilliance of the sun after a week-long downpour. It's one that simultaneously manages steal his breath and breathe life back into him.

He bites his lip. "You'll be the death of me."

"A shame," her breath hitches when his palms make contact with her skin, "when I put so much effort into saving your life."

He barks a laugh, his wings jostling with the shaking of his shoulders that it brushes her calf. She peeks at it fleetingly, a question in her eyes. He nods, and she leaves his hands on her hips, flitting over the tendons of his arms to rest them on his shoulders. She steps more fully into his space, the tension in the air veering from pensive to. . . _heady_ —but both equally poignant.

It intensifies when she skims a curious finger over the sharp curve on the edge of his wing. He shudders.

"Sensitive," she notes.

"You have no idea."

Her eyes darken at the tone of his voice, low and gravelly and laced in molten desire. She surveys him, her orbs hungry and heated in a decidedly much different manner from the beginning of the night.

(It's a manner he very much might find himself growing addicted to)

Without breaking eye contact, he slides his hands up, his fingers greedily going over every patch of skin revealed as he takes her slip off, fingers lightly skimming over the curve of her waist, thumbs lingering along the underside of her breasts and noting the way she shivers and her nipples pebble to sharp attention at the touch. She raises her arms to aid him before dropping them limp at her sides. Standing as naked as him, for once in his long life, he is struck speechless.

He understands the need to wrap herself in steel, for standing before him, she is the most exquisite creature he has ever beheld. While perhaps a biased opinion, simply put—

The world would not be able to handle the force that is _her_ —the woman with a soul of fortitude and a wild, untameable heart.

Luckily for the both of them, he's weathered his fair share of storms.

How strange it is that not so long ago, he thought her somehow _untouchable_.

(An admittedly frequent occurrence—thinking of her, that is)

It's probably why he was so determined to break through the walls she'd built around herself, just to see what he would uncover underneath. With the utter trust she's displayed thus far in the night, it is with hope coating his every action that he firmly believes he is on his way to learning the heart of Nesta. Though, he has a feeling it would take more than a couple of lifetimes to truly understand the uniqueness of it—it is a heart that somehow manages to be both full and bottomless because of the uninhinited way she loves. Still, no matter how long it takes, he has been granted the gift of _time_ and he intends to make the most out of it.

On the other hand, the study of _bodies_ is one he has always been adept at. Hers is an uncharted territory, one she has given him free reign to explore in the most thorough and gratiating manner.

And explore he determinedly and unashamedly does.

Even as a human, she had an otherworldly beauty to her, a grace beyond any comprehension. Becoming High Fae had done nothing but enhance her features, from the sharp intelligence of her bright eyes, the proud jut of her chin to the elegant slope of her neck. Her hands are delicate to the touch, that much he knows, but therein lies a quiet strength—these are the hands that covered him vigilant defiance, the arms that encircled him in refuge. Still, he does not dare touch her and remains motionless, save for his eyes. They burn with the heat of his stare as he takes in all the dips and valleys of her unblemished skin, from the sharpness of her collarbones to the contradictory roundness of her generous breasts. He follows boldly down the flat line of her stomach to the smooth top of her sex.

He inhales.

The sweet scent of her arousal floods his senses, fueling his own desire. His blood races madly to his cock, making him feel almost lightheaded as his fingers twitch with an unbearable ache to touch her.

Their eyes meet and he's overwhelmed by the blatant lust he sees further darkening her stare, the blue of her pupils drowned by the black and borne from her own perusal of his body. Her breaths come out in jilted stutters and it awakens in him that primal need to coat her in his seed, to take and take and _take_ and—he clenches his fists. He reminds himself of the pain in his leg to keep from giving into the haze. He's fighting to reign in his instincts, a fight he is _losing_ when—

"It's. . . you're," she stutters and even he's struck by the way she's grasping for the right word.

Finally, she settles with, " _Big_."

The way her eyes shift downwards then up in a movement so miniscule yet so swift (it could have been a fraction of a second and would have been easy to surpass were it not for his trained eyes), leaves little room for him to doubt as to which of his appendages she could be referring to. Normally, he'd preen under such high praise. But given how vulnerable the events of the night have left him, all it manages to do is make him feel bashful as a blush stains his cheeks. He chuckles though, thankful for the moment of reprieve.

"Thank the Cauldron my wings were the _only_ things that got shredded," he jokes. At her puzzled look, he rushes to explain.

"There's a rumor amongst Illyrians that the wider the male's wingspan, the larger the, well. . ." he trails off, hoping she catches his meaning. He sees the moment she does when she bares her teeth in wicked amusement.

"And how wide do _your_ wings spread?"

"Would you care to find out?"

"And what would you say if I did?"

"Under different circumstances, less _naked_ circumstances, I'd be happy to oblige. But seeing as how this room is just _too_ small," he smirks. "I'll have to make do with showing you my. . . _other_ wingspan. Don't worry," he adds, a bit of his cockiness returning to him, "it's equally impressive."

He expects a smile or a roll of eyes at the very least, not the unease suddenly clouding her face. "How is it going to fit?"

"Hey," he murmurs, unable to help himself as he steps closer and caresses her cheek with the pad of his thumb in a soothing gesture. "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

She tears herself away from his touch as she turns her back on him. He detects anger in her tone when she replies, "So you _don't_ want me?"

He laughs, actually _laughs_. She swivels back to him at the sound and before she can get a punch in like he guesses she _really_ wants to, he abruptly stops.

"You think I don't want you?"

He growls and shuffles closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear, his breath a hot, damp mist of desire on her neck that sends goosebumps all over her body. He grins deviously against her skin.

"I want you so badly I _ache_."

She gasps at the flick of his tongue at her earlobe. He moans.

"I can't see straight when I'm near you. And not just because I want to bury myself inside you," he moves to the other side of her neck, where he presses an open-mouthed kiss against her pulse. She lets out a breathy laugh and his smile broadens at the discovery. _Ticklish_. "I want to know what you're thinking, _all_ the time," he pulls back so he can admire the blush coating her skin a lovely red, witness the desire glow in her eyes—that she might see the utter longing and devotion in his.

"I want to know you're alright. I want your thoughts, your hopes. . . your _dreams_." He twirls a stray lock of her hair around his finger before tucking it behind her ear. Her breath hitches when he presses his forehead to hers. "And I want to be near you, all the _fucking_ time. You think I've got a bad habit? I have to restrain myself from sleeping at the foot of your bed like the dog Amren keeps claiming I am."

He leans back, enough so that his eyes don't cross when he cups her face in his hands, and looks at her with all the emotions his bleeding heart can bespeak.

"Your presence is. . ." he shakes his head. "I could _drown_ when I'm with you and it would be alright, so long as I was drowning in you. I've never felt this before but with you. . . I feel _everything_ with you. You're intoxicating—your voice, your spirit, your scent," he stares at her lips, "your _taste_."

"Cassian." She whispers and he's never heard his name said so reverently before. As her lips shape around the letters, it occurs to him that he hasn't truly _kissed_ her like she deserves.

(Because kisses on battlefields are too. . . final. Kisses on battlefields are _goodbyes_ and it shouldn't count as their first. _It shouldn't count_ )

"What would you say, if I told you I was going to kiss you right now?"

"I'd say, it took you long enough."

He's on her in less than a heartbeat.

There is nothing soft or gentle about the kiss. 500 years of experience is dashed away from the moment their lips meet for theirs is a clash of push and pull, give and take. Chapped lips rub sharply against one another as he suckles on her full bottom lip, tugging on it lightly with his teeth. In retaliation, her tongue slips into his mouth in one fluid motion timed so perfectly, her inexperience is a marvel to him. He doesn't complain, given the way the taste of her explodes in his tongue—stale from the dryness of her mouth after hours without food or drink, but still oh so sweet in its fervor and desperation and he loses himself to it. . . in _her_.

Like a wave cresting over the shore, they crash into each other. Cassian's arms encircle her waist in a grip so tight, the very tip of her toes are the only parts of her touching the ground. Her hands flutter everywhere, as if she can't decide where she wants to place them before settling in his hair and tugging on the strands till the strap of leather holding it up falls to the floor, too. Her fingers bury into his locks in a tangle to rival hers, angling his head the way she prefers so that she can deepen their kiss and sink even further into his embrace.

He never really grasped the concept of losing one's self in another's eyes till her. For when the need for air becomes too great, his lungs burning with the lack thereof, that is exactly what befalls him when he pulls away and looks into her blue-gray gaze. He is entranced by what he sees there, the lust but more than that, the _certainty_.

He's loathe to let her go but the pain in his leg nags at him so he takes a small step in the direction of the bed. In perfect synchronization, she moves with him, sensing the direction of his thoughts and they shuffle towards the mattress, stealing kisses and caresses along the way.

The backs of her knees hit the mattress and though she stumbles, breaking from his lips in a most unceremonious manner, she still falls with the grace of queen. So it is with deference, that he falls to his knees before her (ignoring the pain in his leg in doing so), a question in his eyes as he places gentle hands on her outer thighs and looks up at her—a question answered with the slightest tilt of her head.

She _is_ a queen. . . because she has commanded his heart like no other, and for once he gladly surrenders.

He doesn't tell her to lay down or shut her eyes. He doesn't talk at all. He lets his eyes, his _tongue,_ speak of his worship as he bows his head before the space between her legs in silent request and she opens for him beautifully, his fingers trembling with the utter trust displayed in the action. Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his mouth to the apex of her thighs.

And _devours_ her.

Because she is water, he thinks. She is water and he is a male dying of thirst, suckling on her as if she were the only drop of water after miles of miles of desert. She is water in the way her desire coats his tongue in delicious rivulets that he eagerly laps up, in the way her steadily increasing puffs of breath mirror the soft trickling of a stream, the only other evidence of her enjoyment when the rest of her remains upright. Her stare is unflinching, tracking his movements in burning want and curiosity as sensations of her arousal, of his tongue in her most private of areas, assaults her.

She is water in the way her body ripples with her very first release, quick and unexpected like a storm in the middle of the sea yet just as devastating. She comes apart under the ministrations of his tongue, her hips rocking gently with his mouth as he closes it around her clit and helps her ride out the tide of her high.

That same storm brews in her blue-gray eyes, more gray the heavier they are lidded with hunger when she whispers, _demands_ , "Again."

He captures her lips and growls into the kiss, his cock straining more than he thought possible at the command. Heated flesh presses upon heated flesh as he covers her body with his own and lowers her onto the sheets. Her legs instinctively lock around his hips and he shudders, has to break away from the kiss as he feels his temperature rise and the frenzied haze of arousal begins to overpower his mind. He rests his head in the valley between her breasts and begs, "Tell me to stop, Nesta," because this is the last of his offers of an out, because his blood sings with the need to take her, to _claim_ her and it is only her first time. He wants to savor this moment, he wants to draw out the ecstacy and take his time, go _slow_ and—

She yanks him by the hair till they are facing each other, the movement so unexpected that he barks in pain, a pain that only intensifies when she cups the sides of his face and grips him, _hard_.

"I am yours," she growls through gritted teeth, "so _take_ me," she grinds into him, his cock slipping between the folds of her nether lips and he nearly goes _blind._ She hisses in his ear, " _And do not be gentle._ "

With a roar he enters her, the cavern of her sex so wet with her excitement that he barely feels the barrier of her chastity break. She is so ready, her body so open, it was as if she was made for him. . . as if she were merely _waiting_ for him.

So he wastes no time, burying himself in her wet heat. His thrusts are hard, following on her edict that he not be gentle, but shallow—because piercing the fume of his fervor, is the pain from his injured leg.

With his remaining strength, he grips her hips and then flips them over, so that Nesta be on top. Nesta sits up, surprise coating her features at the change in position.

"My leg," he grumbles, sitting up. He can see the apology blooming in her eyes but refuses to accept it. He holds her hips, having effectively remained inside her as he rolled them over. He's so lost in the feel of her, he nearly forgets this is her first time. Through gritted teeth, he asks her with all the remaining gentleness he can muster, "How are you feeling?"

Her jaw equally tense, she clenches her walls around him. He digs his nails onto her hips, her skin marred by the crescent moon shapes he leaves behind, so as not to come right then and there. He glares at her.

She glares right back, as if offended by the concern—the _assumption_ that she wouldn't be alright so far.

"Tell me what to do."

It's more statement than request, the tone seemingly vulnerable yet commanding in that way _only_ Nesta can manage. So it is with guiding hands that he bids her to rise onto her knees before instructing her to slide down the length of him. Again and again, till she sets a steady pace. In this position, he can feel the stretch of her walls every moment he enters her, his cock so sensitive encased as it is in her heat that he can't keep the sounds from tumbling out his mouth, drawn out grunts and moans in a symphony of his pleasure. Nesta does not cry out her satisfaction, her ragged breaths the only soundtrack of her enjoyment, that and her thundering heart. He doesn't mind, not with her thighs so slick and him making enough sounds for the both of them.

He grips her chin. "I am yours," he returns. "Use me as you will and," he smirks, "do _not_ be gentle."

Desire, pure and uninhibited, ripples down her spine, as something in her uncoils, _unleashes. . ._ as she takes everything from him, as he gives himself wholly to her and she to him. For once, he forgets about his own pleasure and his need for release in order to marvel at her—a creature of desperation and heat as she towers over him. She is a fortitude of ardor, so tall and strong in the way her muscles clench around him and the nails of her fingers dig near painfully into his shoulders.

So strong, yes, but so vulnerable too. She doesn't close her eyes, perhaps as fearful as he is of the tether between them breaking should they look away from each other and he sees _everything_ there, the longing for another bout of release mingled with that niggling pain and fear too.

"I will be here," he pants in response to her unspoken query. "Come sun rise, I will still be here."

At the declaration, she releases a sound that could have been a moan or a sob, maybe both. He sees it for what it truly is—acceptance. . . _faith_ that he'll stay true to his word.

She sets an unforgiving pace now and he's helpless, awash in the current of her. With his leg a hindrance to his movements, his hands and lips do most of the roaming. Fingers spanning miles and miles of skin when he can't decide where he wants to touch her so he settles for touching her anywhere he can reach—knuckles kneading the ridges of her spine, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts before leaving bruising kisses in his wake (that he does again, and again, and _again,_ when it elicits the filthiest moan he's ever heard anyone utter, _ever_ ), teeth nipping not-so-lightly on her rosebud nipples before laving his tongue soothingly over his bites and lips sucking angry marks onto her neck, the purple mottling of her skin in places that would surely remain unconcealed, especially with the Night Court's fashion, giving him untainted male pride.

(He could never own an untameable, wild thing such as Nesta but he'd sooner kill any other who would dare touch her lasciviously without her consent, not with _him_ to contend with. . . not with _her_ laying waste to them with her barbed words and sharp glares)

Because much like their tumultuous relationship, there is nothing soft or slow or calm about their coupling. Nesta herself rakes her nails down the length of his back and he arches with the swirl of pain and pleasure that engulfs him at the rough gesture. She tugs at his scalp when he does something particularly pleasing to her with his lips, mouth or tongue. Then she returns those bruising kisses with imprints of her own, his neck peppered with bites and discolorations—of which he will proudly show off beneath the glaring radiance of the sun.

And when her thighs tremble and her walls flutter with her impending release, he rests his brow against her own and brings the pad of this thumb atop her clit, the callus of his digit rough against the velvety curve of her nub. With that blessed Fae agility, she increases her thrusts, nearly vibrating with the speed of which she chases that blinding golden peak. He rubs that bundle of nerves to aid her in the chase, unsure himself of how much longer he can hold back his release. A few, roughened swipes of her clit has her throwing her head back in a silent scream as she tumbles over the edge and into her climax, and he follows her—always, always follows her—as he too reaches the crest of his passion with a mighty roar.

They fall into a heap of tangled limbs, hands entwined as Cassian molds the hard edges of him into her soft, feminine curves and rests his head onto her chest. He has since softened inside her but makes no move to withdraw, uncaring of the way sweat has built atop their skins. He will not let her go again, not now that the war is over, not now when in her arms, he has found sanctuary, _he_ —bastard-born and unclaimed by any bloodline—has found a _home,_ different from that of the one the Inner Circle has provided him but one he has coveted, has thought of as underserved, all the same _._

He only hopes she feels as he does, but given the way she clutches him tightly, as if any sort of space between them—no matter how diminutive—would be unbearable, he gets the feeling their thoughts are one and the same.

Hearts slow and breaths even out as their blood gradually cools from the body bliss. This, here, is the calm he'd been first expecting.

Minutes, hours, lifetimes pass and still, they do not speak—not in the traditional sense at least. Cassian tucks his wings in best he can as they both lay on their sides, facing each other. The tempestuousness that marked their joining has ebbed and they take the reprieve and turn it into a tranquil exploration of each other.

And when they have drunk their fill for the moment, she asks him what are they to do now.

He doesn't bother with flowery speeches or platitudes. With cutting frankness, he tells her that it will be difficult. More likely than not, they will argue as in any given moment, they will not see eye to eye. He is careless as she is cold. He will make mistakes and so will she. Learning when to push and when to hold back will be an experiment of trial and error. Two stubborn individuals used to getting their own way acclimating into being a unit is sure to have disastrous results. But as he's starting to accept, many things can be forgiven.

If you've got someone loving you.

The kind of love that makes you want to be better, not just for your partner, but for yourself. The kind of love that you don't get lost in but the one to help you find yourself.

He says it then, those three words. The affirmation paling in comparison to everything else that's been said between them. But he means it, with every bit of his dark and crippled heart, and love is love is love.

So she takes his face in her hands, the most gentle she's ever been, and they make love in that delicate way that lovers do—as hearts give in to each other and their souls meld.

The sky awakens as they grasp the zenith of their ardor, his wings encircling them as if to contain their intimacy. She eyes the leathery pinion, her touch feather-light as she says with a twinkle in her eye, "About the habit of lingering outside my door?"

He raises a curious eyebrow, affecting an air of nonchalance he does not feel given the way she fingers the lines of tendons on his wing. "What about it?"

She moves on to trace the contour of his face, before nudging at the bridge of his nose with her own. She kisses him then, her mouth opening divinely at the slightest prod of his tongue. She whispers against his lips, "Don't break it too fast."

With the affection so heavy in her every caress he sees the words for what they truly mean—the first crack in her armor, the first break in the wall of ice encasing her heart.

 _Come in,_ she seems to sigh contentedly.

The first sign of dawn breaks through the horizon when she smiles up at him. His wings flare at the vision of exquisite effulgence she paints, at the look on her face as she gazes at him with unadulterated exhilaration. It drives away that insidious pain and the lingering shadows that deign to plant doubts into his mind.

They were so timid and afraid. They _still_ were timid and afraid. After all, it was so easy, to slip into the comfort of that darkness as if it were a blanket to ward off the cold. An aching familiarity, but a familiarity all the same after swimming in its perilous waters for so long, in comparison to the _newness_ of them. But there is no unchoosing her, there is no _undoing_ her as he bends and breaks and builds himself around her. Together, he reminds himself. Together they are a force so strong that not even darkness dares touch them.

A sunbeam arcs over the mountaintop and she enforces their bright fort with a final, fervent asseveration.

"I choose you, too."

And beneath the glimmering, pale light—

They shine.

* * *

 **AN: Title inspired by the song, Lonesome by SHAED, which has nothing to do with Nessian lol but it was a great mood setter for this fic.**

 **This was a gift for my best friend, Selina (captainwiley here and on tumblr) who loves Nessian so much she pretty much commandeers the trash can and whose birthday was last December 12. I maintain, I AM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LATE but I got there in the end, didn't I bae? Finally got around to sharing it on here so, hope you guys liked it!**

 **If you wanna cry about all things SJM, come say hi here or on my tumblr (same name)! :)**


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